


Van der Driscoll

by welshalbino



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Other, Pregnancy, Protective Arthur Morgan, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29341689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welshalbino/pseuds/welshalbino
Summary: “Everything about us is fucked because we got caught in the crosshairs.” His mouth twists, your own disappointment reflected in his slouched shoulders. “You made me feel like… like all this mess was happening for a reason, but now…” Your voice breaks. “Even if I got away from Colm, you won’t leave Dutch. You wouldn’t have taken me back there if you could’ve. Everything is just… fucked.”****You've been running as an O'Driscoll since life dealt you a bad hand. Things were looking up when you met a handsome cowboy in the local town, but it isn't long before the truth catches up to both of you.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/O'Driscoll, Arthur Morgan/O'Driscoll Gang, Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	1. O'Driscoll

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter contains injury, threat of violence, Micah, and being tied to a tree.

You swallow the blood filling your mouth, but it does nothing to wet your throat. A dozen faces have thrown you dirty looks mixed with confusion and apprehension. The cowboy that brought you here on the back of his horse has been retained in the large tent - which in turn is on the other side of the cart to where you’ve been bound.

You’ve been trying to eavesdrop, but all you’ve made out is bickering, scolding and multiple hushed insults aimed at you. Whenever Arthur begins to raise his voice, someone comes from around the cart to spit at you or kick your feet.

Closing your eyes does nothing to help your headache, nor the sting of the bullet wound in your side. Your tongue is repeatedly drawn to an unusual sharpness inside your cheek, making you wonder if the Mexican broke a tooth when he smashed the handle of his gun into your face. Not that it matters. You were surprised you weren’t already dead.

“What are you doing, O’Driscoll?”

You open your eyes in time to see a heavy bearded man grab a smaller man by the arm. The slosh of water hitting the grass is heavenly, but also draws your attention to the dire thirst in your throat as you watch the droplets be lost to the ground.

“N-nothin’, Bill.”

“Are you in on this? You set us up?”

“No! No, of course n-not! I’ve never even met her-”

“You gonna free her so she can slit our throats in the night?”

“No, sir! No! I was just-” He grunts as the man called Bill punches him in the stomach. A woman shouts and runs over, but Bill is stalking away into the trees, still growling threats at nobody in particular.

“I’m fine, Miss Gaskill,“ croaks the somewhat familiar man.

“Are you sure? He didn’t need to hit you!”

“I-I was comin’ over to see her. I jus’ wanted to know if she’s ok - bein’ tied to that tree, well, it ain’t no nice thing, Miss Gaskill.”

“I know, but Dutch is talkin’ with Arthur about it now. I don’t reckon they’ll keep a woman there as long as they did you.”

“I hope not.” The pair give you a forlorn look and disappear to the other side of the cart. You close your eyes again, trying to distract yourself from the distant memory of fresh cold water sliding down your throat.

You must fall asleep, because when the boots come into view your neck is stiff and the horizon is brightening the ink of the sky. You try to look up, but the muscles in your neck decide otherwise.

“What were you doing there?”

You try to speak but your throat is too dry to even cough. A hand reaches down and lifts your chin firmly. Arthur’s face is without humour, and his brow the lowest you’ve seen it. You inhale sharply as his lips thin with impatience.

“You been with’em this whole time?” You shake your head instinctively, but he catches your hesitation and releases your face with a grunt of disgust. “Shit.”

You close your eyes again, trying to ignore the crackle of his stubble as he rubs a hand along his jaw. A lump is rising in your throat, but you try to swallow it. Now is not the time to be showing weakness, but the deep sense of betrayal is suffocating you.

“You been-? Too?” you manage to choke.

“I been what?”

“Van der Linde,” you hiss, forcing your head up to glare at him.

He scoffs and shakes his head, turning on his heel and stalking away. You hear a frail voice call after him, but you don’t care anymore. The tall broad frame of Dutch Van der Linde himself is marching towards you with a thin frail frame of a man following closely behind.

“-be easy on him, Dutch. He thought he was doing the right thing.”

“You are both getting far too soft!” You yelp as Dutch pulls you to your feet, the restraints burning around your wrists. “Since when did Colm hire women to do his dirty work?” You snicker, but a slap across your face cuts it short.

“He’s always had working women in camp,” you manage to gasp through the blossoming stars. “Not like you, though. He doesn’t keep them around.”

“I mean as gunslingers. That’s what you are, ain’t it?”

“He doesn’t.”

“What do you mean he doesn’t?” he scoffs. “How’d you fall in with them?”

The thin man steps forward, scrutinising your mess of a face. “You a spy? A lookout of sorts?”

You force yourself to withhold the hysteria bubbling inside of you. “You think Colm has thought of using spies?”

“I think Colm is always thinking of ways to catch us out,” growls Dutch. “It’s more a matter of what we do with you now we have you.”

“Just kill me already.” After all, it would be easier. Arthur’s look of disgust turns your stomach and not just from guilt. If you had known, you would have steered clear or even shot him there and then.

You can almost hear the men musing in front of you. Bird song is beginning to erupt as life starts to stir elsewhere in the camp.

“Is that what you want, Y/N?” asks the older man gently.

The sound of your name jolts through you. Your gang had never used it because you had never made it known to them. This was a man’s world, and the only way to protect yourself had been to become one.

So you had. You’d bound your chest, cut your hair and changed your clothes. Before the camp woke, you would use the ash from the fire to disguise your soft jaw and thicken your brows in addition to mascara from your past life. Escaping for a few days to hunt was an excuse to bathe and become yourself again. Packing your things into your saddle bag, you made a stop in a stream off the road to wash your face and change clothes. It was the only way you could guarantee yourself some solitude when O’Driscolls were so plentiful in the local area. Any enemies you had made would ride by you as you rested or hunted game.

It was after a bath you had first seen him. He had been trying to de-escalate an argument with the hotel owner - something about him beating a man who had hurt a friend of his. Seeing your wet hair curling over your shoulders, he had given you a nod.

“They run good baths here?” he asked.

“They run ‘em hot and private enough.”

He had immediately set down a coin. “I’ll have what she had.” When advised of the wait, he had waved his hand. “If this lady reckons it’s worth it, I can wait.”

That had been weeks ago. It felt a lot longer, but multiple brushes with death every day made everything count that much more. You had brushed off rumours of Van der Lindes in the area. How bad could they be compared with the headless chickens you ran around with? After riding out with Colm to scope a new camp, you had returned to Cumberland Forest to find everyone slaughtered. Any stragglers were shot on sight. How could they be any worse than what you were already with?

“I don’t know, Dutch. She’s a woman.”

“She’s an O’Driscoll!” Your body was too tired to flinch as he got up in your face, trying to intimidate you. “Whether Colm knew it or not.”

“What do you want to do with her? We can’t let her go, not now.”

“Suppose we could always kill her. Or better yet, get that Kieran to do it.”

Hosea shakes his head. “I don’t think that will go down too well.”

“How else are we supposed to deal with her? Another O’Driscoll in camp is begging for trouble.”

Your mind wanders back to Arthur’s look of disdain. The hatred was on a different spectrum to the crinkle of his eyes when he had found you again in the saloon. The cold that rolled off him was nothing like the heat of his hand when it had brushed yours on the ledge overlooking Valentine. You’re too angry with yourself to worry about the outcome. Even if they let you go, Colm will make sure you’re strung up for deceiving them. All your things are back at camp, and you know you won’t be able to bind your chest again for another few weeks with the wound in your side.

You lean your head back against the trunk and close your eyes again, ignoring their chatter but still unable to stop a tear from leaking down your cheek as they walk away.

***

The smell of food makes your stomach growl, but you ignore it. A small boy walks past staring at you openly, but his mother ushers him away with an air of distrust. You can’t blame her; you know the O’Driscoll’s are nowhere near as reserved as this gang when it comes to robbing and killing. You had heard them boasting about a stage they’d intercepted, filled with women and children. Apparently they weren’t the first to stop them, but they were the first to go all out and rob them.

You knew at the retelling of the stories that it was best to remain a man.

“Who do we have here?” A sinister chuckle rolls you out of your thoughts. The first thing you notice is the thick handlebar moustache, followed by the thin curtains of blond curls from under his white hat. His sneer makes your blood run cold, and you are tied too tight to move your face out of his reach. His long fingers stroke along your jaw. “I gotta say, this set up?” He steps forward, his lips almost brushing your ear. “It’s working for me.”

You squeak as a knife thuds into the wood above your head. The stranger steps back, and scoffs.

“Didn’t your daddy tell you not to play with knives, Morgan?” He reaches up and pulls it out, playing it between his fingers. His grey green gaze transfixing you, the cool blade touches your chin, forcing you to lift your head and expose your jugular. “Don’t want anyone to get hurt now, do we, cowpoke?”

The humour is replaced with irritation at the click of a gun being cocked. He lowers the knife, and you realise you had stopped breathing.

“Try me, Micah,” Arthur growls, his revolver pointing at his temples.

Chuckling, he steps back from you and approaches his new target. “Sorry, didn’t realise you was practising your white knight act with Guinevere, here.” He throws you a look over his shoulder, looking you up and down and licking his lips. “I’ll be back, princess. Save some for me, hey?”

A gunshot rips through the camp. You’re breathless, blinking rapidly trying to work out where the bullet has entered your body, if you’re still alive. It takes all of ten seconds for you to realise Arthur had fired his shot into the sky.

You feel the rope tying your wrists together tugging up and down as Dutch storms around the corner with his entourage.

“What in God’s name are you playing at?” he spits as your hands suddenly fall free.

Arthur has already gripped your arm and is dragging you away from the crowd. You stumble, your legs having forgotten how to move themselves after days. You are dumbstruck as he reties your hands in front of you and hoists you onto a cart.

“I didn’t bring her here for her to be Micah’s plaything.”

“What are you talking about, Arthur?” Dutch splutters. “Micah has been back all of two minutes-”

“I know I ain’t put y'all in the easiest position bringing her back here, so jus’ lemme take care of it, aight?”

Hosea walks forward, surveying you gently. “She can’t go free. Not with the Pinkertons after us.”

“I know,” he growls, retying your hands to your legs to prevent you running off despite your lack of effort. “Don’t I goddamn know it…”

The old man reaches out to touch his arm. “Stay safe, Arthur.”


	2. The Cousin

_“Not you again!” you teased as he waved a lazy salute in your direction._

_“Any recommendations?” he asked, nodding at your plate. You shrugged and he ordered the same, bringing you over a fresh beer and sitting at your table._

_“Fancy seeing you here, Mr Morgan.”_

_He smiled and removed his hat, running his hands through his hair. "I’m always in here, me.”_

_“How odd… I seem to remember you getting barred for life a few weeks ago?”_

_“Ah, well. The bartender’s a reasonable man.” He shrugged, embarrassed as you laughed at him. “Can’t say the same for that Tommy guy.”_

The sparkle in his eye has long gone. Not that you’re looking at him, you’re too busy trying to take in the smell of the trees and the birdsong, trying to ignore the fear in your thoughts. Who knows how he intends to kill you? Or where he will dump your body afterwards? What does it matter? No one is going to come looking for you. The O'Driscoll’s mind their own and even if they did recognise you, you’d be strong up for treason. If the law recognise your identity, they’ll consider it a blessing. You are on your own, restrained in a caravan with your captor.

“Why didn’t you let your friends kill me?” you hear yourself ask.

His silence is stoic. You begin to wonder if you didn’t say it out loud after all when he finally clears his throat.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” You laugh, looking around. “Would’ve been easier than killing me out here - at least at my camp I was just another body from a gang fight. Out here you’ll start a murder investigation.”

“I ain’t killin’ yer.” He throws you a sideways glance as you blink in disbelief. “Not yet at least.”

“You just said-”

“What does it matter what I said?” He scoffs. “Like you’re one to talk, Y/N.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You can feel the heat growing in your ears as you scowl.

“What do you think it means?” he snaps. Flicking the reins, he takes a steadying breath. “Why were you running with the O'Driscolls?”

“Why are you running with Dutch Van der Linde?”

“Tha’s different!”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve spent my life runnin’ with him an’ the same can’t be said for you if Colm doesn’t know he’s running with a woman yet.” He scoffs. “He ain’t ever taken kindly to surprises.”

“You talk like you know him.”

“I did for a while.” He shoots you a look. “Way back when. How long you been runnin’ with them? Since you don’t know the history and you ain’t been found out yet, I reckon five, six months?”

“Seven,” you hiss. His brooding has relented enough to exude smugness and it’s grating on you that he is still damn attractive.

“You gonna tell me why? Coz I ain’t askin’ a third time.”

“Why does anyone become an outlaw? I needed money. It was only gonna be temporary but my cousin got shot up in that Blackwater massacre so I had to stay.”

“Your cousin?”

“Yeah, Heidi. Your ol’ Dutch should know her well.”

He stiffens at that, his eyes darkening introspectively. “Heidi?”

“She wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for me, and then I went ahead and slept with her killer!” You can feel hysteria bubbling in your chest, the swell of guilt tightening its grip around your throat.

“I weren’t on that ferry-”

“But you stayed knowing what he had done!” You choke as the sobs finally overcome you. “You stayed with him and I stayed with Colm and… I thought you made it better, but this is so so much worse.”

Arthur swears, reaching for you before retracting his hand hesitantly. “I’m sorry- if I’d have known…”

“You’d what? Leave them?” You try to scoff but the corners of your mouth are dragging too far towards your chin. “You have that luxury?”

He sighs, defeated. “You ain’t been in the game as long as I have. Sometimes things get messy.”

“Messy is a pile of lawmen. Messy is a couple of _horses_ being lost.”

“I wasn’t there - things go wrong-”

“A job gone wrong is loss without a payday - it was a fucking massacre, Arthur! It was indiscriminate slaughter!”

“I’m sorry, ok? We’re all sorry about what happened!” He flicks the reins as if determined to leave the gang behind. “Nobody knows why, but everything blew up and bodies started hitting the deck. You ain’t the only one that lost family on that damn ferry - we lost more people than we have done in years. We tried to tell him it didn’t feel right- but no one ever imagined that…”

He trails off, his chin low, eyes only seeing the road ahead. You shake your head, wanting nothing more than to curl up and cry, but the bonds are unforgiving so you stay as you are, looking anywhere but at the driver besides you.

Hours pass in silence. You catch him worrying in your peripherals occasionally, but it does nothing to help the ache in your chest nor the overwhelming exhaustion that has burrowed its way into your bone marrow.

Balancing a cigarette between his lips, he strikes a match on the bottom of his boot. When it’s lit, he offers it to you but you turn your head further away. 

“I’ve been smoking a lot lately,” he mutters, smoke curling from his lips. “I’m starting to doubt whether I’m breathing you in or smoking you out.” He throws you another glance, his eyes sad under the rim of his hat as he takes another deep drag. You close your eyes, trying to ignore the pain that ripples in his words.

_“Didn’t expect to see you out here!”_

_Your stomach flutters as the familiar face grunts its way into view. He stretches his legs out, leaning back on his arms that have crossed over your own. Officially seated, he gives you a dazzling smile that makes you melt._

_“Can a lady not enjoy some peace and quiet in this town?”_

_He chuckles, setting the worn gambler’s hat aside as he lights a smoke. “Surprised you’d want to.”_

_You nudge him playfully, accepting the proffered tobacco with fixed eye contact. You inhale the same air he’s blowing into the misty morning, trying not to let the blush creep up your neck. “What brings you back to Valentine? Outta supplies already?”_

_He rolls his eyes. “I wish.” You cock a flirtatious eyebrow, but he shakes his head, suddenly serious. “Where were you last week? I made the trip especially.”_

_“I was… visiting friends,” you lie._

_“D’your friends know about me?”_

_“Do yours?”_

_His fingers caress your hand as he takes back the cigarette. “Touché.”_

“What would you have done if it had been the other way round?” he asks eventually. “If you and Colm’s boys came into our camp… What would you have done?”

“I kill men - not women.” You open your eyes to meet his brooding gaze. “I… can’t imagine I’d have done well when I learned about the boy neither.”

“If they weren’t there?”

You swallow the lump in your throat as he looks away. “I wouldn’t have had a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” he says lowly.

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Your laugh is damp.

“This life…”

“Is shit.” You scoff as his lips thin. “We don’t go into it because we want to. The only reason we stick with it is because we’ve made too many enemies to go clean.”

“C’mon, it ain’t all bad-”

“Everything about us is fucked because we got caught in the crosshairs.” His mouth twists, your own disappointment reflected in his slouched shoulders. “You made me feel like… like all this mess was happening for a reason, but now…” Your voice breaks. “Even if I got away from Colm, you won’t leave Dutch. You wouldn’t have taken me back there if you could’ve. Everything is just… fucked.”

“How’s your side?” he enquires gently.

"Least of my worries,” you mutter. You haven’t been able to sleep properly for weeks now, and when you do, your dreams are borderline hallucinogenic. The exhaustion has long since soaked into your bones, and now with your limbs bound for yet another unending hour, it wasn’t like the wound (or your broken tooth) were worthy of your concern.

_  
Your giggles pitter out as you realise what he’s seeing. His eyes are soft and sad as his fingertips drink in the irregularities of your skin as gently as they can._

_“Every one of them is a story,” you murmur, pulling his chin up and away from your body. “A story for another time.”_

_The corner of his lips tucks into his cheek. “Well, if we ain’t sharing secrets-” He leans back and pulls his shirt over his head in one swift tug. Your hands are small, pale and delicate against the muscles of his stomach. You comb them through the golden hair, trying not to linger on the silver scars that litter his body._

_You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him in, wordlessly thanking him. He responds firmly, his tongue tracing your lips as your bodies mould to one another.  
_

Dirt builds up behind your nails as you hiss back into the present moment.

“Done,” breathes Arthur, his fingers grazing the soft flesh of your hip as he cuts the thread. “I guess I should have guessed where all your stories came from. I didn’t mean to become one of them.”

You try to inspect the stitches yourself but they’re just out of your line of sight. Pulling down your shirt, you look around for the bedroll. Every string of every muscle is screaming for rest, no matter how temporary. As though reading your mind, Arthur tuts.

“You need to eat somethin’.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should be. When was the last time you ate?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care either.”

He lights another cigarette as you crawl across the grass of your small camp and collapse just inside the tent. You barely close your eyes before the smell of tobacco wakes you again.

“Eat.”

You groan loudly. “What about you?”

“Forget about me.” A cigarette is pinched between his incisors as he begins to pack away the camp. “If you don’t start eatin’, I’m gonna have to do something we’ll both regret.”

The weight of your arms with the small spoon of soup is laughable. You force your mouth to meet it, your entire focus taken up by the menial task. You manage half a bowl before surrendering. Arthur is watching you over the back of his horse, the lines between his brows digging six feet into his head. He looks away quickly, his mouth still a thin line despite his efforts.

“We got another while to go yet.”

“Where are we going?” You watch him unpin the tent and fold it up.

“East.”

“East?” you repeat, laughing at how your ears have warped the sound. Your stomach sinks as you watch him purposely avoid you. “You handing me over?”

“What? No! O’course not, Y/N, I ain’t stupid.”

“Then… why east?” You watch him closely and notice his knee jittering despite his weight. “Where are you taking me?”

“You can’t stay here.”

“And you can’t let me go. If Colm catches me-”

“I won’t let him.”

“Then… what?” You swallow the lump in your throat. “I know you ain’t going to let me stay with you after what I said about Dutch.” Your weak laugh comes out breathless. “Arthur?”

“I’ll make sure you get out of here alright. I owe you that at least.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” you state as calmly as you can. “I’ll be fine.”

The shadows under his eyes are darker today. You can’t help but wonder how much longer he stayed awake after you passed out. “I won’t be able to forgive myself if something happens to you, Y/N. Let me have this.”


	3. The Docks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have changed the overall rating for this fic to Explicit due to this chapter. Warnings of sex, threat and domestic violence.

The two of you ride in silence. The wagon wheels keep rolling. The pit in your stomach rolls along with them. _Which is it going to be, gentlemen? Black or red?_

He hasn’t bothered binding your wrists today. You can’t pretend like there’s any possibility of you attempting to escape; an anchor of lethargy has long since made its home in your chest.

The landscape begins to change rapidly as you descend into Lemoyne. The air thickens, choking you, the cries of seagulls filling your ears.

He hasn’t confided his intentions to you yet, but the ride is slow and heavy on both of your shoulders. Saint Denis or Van Horn - both were known for their ports.  
_  
"She can't go free. Not with the Pinkertons after us."_

_"I know. Don’t I goddamn know it...”_  
  
The bridge welcomes you with false joy. Fumes pollute the sky, horses clop over cobblestones, beggars call out for pennies from the sidewalks. You look on morosely as he steps off the carriage to speak with the mail man behind the counter. He checks a pocket watch you didn’t know he had and nods, thanking him before rejoining you.

Your lips are sewn shut, even as he rides the cart up to a saloon a couple of streets over. He helps you down, leading you inside wordlessly, paying for a room and a bath for you both. On autopilot, you follow the bath girl to the steaming water, Arthur’s assurances inaudible over your thoughts.

She tries and fails to make conversation with you. You’ve never hired help for a bath - you enjoy the rare splash of solitude too much, especially in the soft steam of hot water. You start to wonder when you last bathed as she scrubs soap into your hair. Usually your wounds aren’t fresh enough to sting.

The bed in the room Arthur has rented looks sublimely soft. Even the evening sun gleaming through the windows is gentle and welcoming. Stripping to your underclothes, you crawl under the duvet, groaning as you fall asleep.

***

You wake up hours later, surprised to find the bed empty. Turning your head, you spot Arthur in a chair, sketching in the leather bound journal you’ve found him writing in on more than one occasion. You're sure the sun must have set, but the room is still visible in the darkness thanks to the ever burning street lights outside.

He must notice your movement, as he soon sets the book aside and walks up to the bed hesitantly. You move back, inviting him to sit. After all, his money has paid for this.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. About all of this.”

You shake your head sleepily as the bed sinks under the added weight. “It’s my fault. When I heard the boys had caught a Van der Linde... I wasn’t supposed to be there, I just wanted to see the face of… of one of her murderers.”

Your body hums as fingers trace your face and neck. “Well, I’m still sorry for everything that happened after.”

You turn your head to kiss his palm, dismissing the hitch in his breathing. “At least it was with you.”

“Because being tied up is preferable in my company?”

You laugh breathlessly, turning your face into the pillow to hide your growing smirk. "Something like that."

His hand continues to caress your loose hair behind your ear and, with more than one sigh of encouragement, lowers hesitantly to your shoulders. You shrug the duvet down, extending his reach. Hearing the bed move, you open your eyes finding his face next to you. Before you can change your mind, you press your lips against his with determination.

His grip tightens as you deepen the kiss, breaking away to nip at his neck as you tug on the buttons of his shirt. He shifts his weight to make it easier for you to push it off him before climbing carefully between your now exposed legs.

Your heart flutters as he kisses the crook of your neck, fingers still kneading your body as though committing them to memory. His boots clatter to the floor, his belt clinking as you tug on his trousers, eager to release him.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says suddenly, his lids heavy as he searches your face. “We didn’t know then-”

“We know now,” you counter, your chest heaving with anticipation. “Do you still want to..?”

“It ain’t about what I want.”

“Then take me, cowboy,” you whisper into his mouth.

The answering passion is heavy with pending grief of what could have been. His tongue glides over your bottom lip before he breaks away to adore your collarbones and shoulders, his strong hands dancing over every vein, every ligament, every tendon. You arch your back to push yourself closer to him, as though if you press close enough his torso will swallow your existence and stop tomorrow from dawning.

As you try to help him out of his jeans, he sits back and begins to kiss the inside of your thighs, his facial hair scratching every tickle from his warm breath. You know where he’s going, but patience is a virtue you never mastered. Lifting his head with a hand to his jaw, you sit up to meet him, dropping kisses into his clean hair and forehead until his mouth finds yours again. The kiss is fierce as you fight to express what time is taking from you, both of you gasping for breath.

The bright blue irises are a thin ring around the black of his pupil. Your left arm is lifted above your head and it isn’t long before the calloused tips of his fingers are interlacing your own as he shifts himself into position. You give him the tiniest of nods in answer to his questioning gaze, but it’s quickly lost to the purr of your senses as he penetrates you.

His hand is locked into your hip just as your free hand is fixed onto his. Before he’s able to roll his hips half a dozen times, you come crashing around him, losing your mind to the pleasure.

When the stars bloom back into your surroundings, Arthur is watching you in shock.

“Already?” he breathes, almost concerned in his confusion. You nod, laughing despite yourself and it’s not long before he’s laughing too.

“Don’t stop on my account,” you manage to smile. “I’m in this for as long as you’ll have me.”

Chuckles pepper between the kisses and sighs as he begins to move again. your thoughts as soft and tangled as your lovemaking. You climax another twice before his thrusting becomes erratic, his lungs labouring for you both. With a low keening moan, he suddenly pulls back, hips and shoulders quaking as he empties himself over the inside of your thighs, his eyebrows pulled tight in dismay as he pants.

You give him a chance to catch his breath before you push yourself up to trace his jaw until he can speak.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?” you murmur, your own eyebrows knotting as you view the internal struggle of Arthur’s thoughts.

“I don’t know what happened. I knew I was close but I-”

“You still pulled out.” You kiss his bare shoulder softly.

“I don’t- I don’t know if I did it in time,” he mumbles, cheeks pink with shame as he avoids your eye and rolls away from you. “I’m sorry, I made a right mess...”

“I’m pretty sure I made a big enough mess for the two of us.” He catches the grin on your face and laughs despite himself.

“Mm, s'pose I can let you have that.” He chuckles as you pout playfully, kissing the tip of your nose as he climbs out of bed for a washcloth. By the time he turns back, your breathing has slowed and slipped into slumber. Carefully wiping you down as not to disturb you, he brings his journal to the bed to finish his sketch of your soft sleeping form.

****

You groan. Something doesn’t feel right. You can feel heartburn building it’s way up into your throat and your stomach is twisting up a storm. A clatter of spurs across floorboards make you sit up.

“O’Driscolls. Downstairs.” Arthur is pulling his trousers up, slipping his arms into the suspenders as he peers down into the street. “We need to leave.”

“They ain’t gonna recognise me,” you mumble, sitting up. What is wrong with you? Your whole body aches like you've drank the bar downstairs dry, but you know you haven't had anything alcoholic for weeks. “I’ve passed them in the street before now and they have never said anything.”

“I’d rather not take the chance.” He gathers your clothes, throwing them at you as you dress slowly. “We overslept anyway. We were supposed to be at the docks for eight.”

“The docks?” Arthur takes over dressing you as you slow to a halt. “Arthur, where are we going?”

His lips press together as he stoically hooks the back of a new dress he had bought from the tailors when you were asleep.

You slip out without seeing any familiar faces. The O’Driscolls Arthur saw must have only been passing through. He’s clearly nervous as he rides you both down to the docks, touching your hand, squeezing it, then letting it go before holding it again. You can’t think about what’s happening - your entire focus is split between the impending grief and not throwing up.

A large ship is waiting to sail. Arthur helps you down, guiding you over to a young gentleman by boarding.

“We ain’t too late, are we?”

“No, sir! Thirty minutes til we set sail!”

“Great.” He pulls out a wad of cash. “A feller down by the stagecoach said you still had space?”

“For yourself, sir?”

You force yourself to take deep breaths. The ringing in your ears, the hot flush and cold sweats - you force yourself to swallow, trying to overcome the knot of nausea.

“For the lady.” Arthur is surprised when he turns to find you leaning against the railings. “Y/N, y’alright?”

“Do you have medical papers?”

He turns back to the man, his hand still on the small of your back. “What for?”

“If anyone is showing signs of ill health at or before the point of boarding, they can't sail with us.”

"She’s fine. Her fiancé's waitin' on her."

"I'm sorry, sir, but it’s company policy. We can't allow anyone showing signs of ill health to board in case it’s contagious." Arthur scoffs loudly, but the boy is looking at you. Your curses are weak. "There's a doctor round the corner - if you're quick he might be able to help you."

"How much to get the lady onboard?" he asks, shuffling the money between his hands, shoving notes into the boy’s chest. "Fifty? A hundred?"

"Sir, I can't-"

"Two hundred?"

"Arthur, stop!" Your heart is ricocheting against your ribs. "Let's just… go to the doctor. Get a note like he said to say it ain't contagious and renegotiate."

Arthur gives the boy a dark look before shoving the money back into his bag. "Fine," he mutters darkly. "But you had better let us on!"

“As long as it ain’t contagious, sir.”

You make it to ten paces from the doctor’s office when whatever upset in your stomach hurls itself from your mouth. You cringe as bile splatters over the cobbles of the road, pulling your skirts out of the splash range with one hand and leaning against a lamppost with the other.

“Y/N?”

You heave again, the bitter acid burning on its way up your throat. You can hear Arthur from behind you, shouting for a doctor, accepting a stranger’s proffered handkerchief and pressing it into your hand.

You press your face against the metal of the post when you’re confident enough in your ability to keep your nausea at bay. The sun has been low enough that the air has a little chill, and you breathe it in greedily.

“Y/N?”

“Must be something I ate,” you mumble, even though you know it’s a lie because you’ve barely eaten all week. Even before crossing Bill Williamson in camp, your appetite has been patchy at best. "Come on," you say as forcefully as you can. "Let's get this over with."

He protests weakly, but you shut down his arguments with false confidence. The love you made last night is as good of a goodbye you can take. The sooner you get on the boat, the sooner you can move on and leave your tumultuous gunslinger ways behind you.

***

"Pregnant?"

You close your eyes as they leak down your cheeks.

"Yes, sir." He washes his hands in the small basin. "Newly so, but the fetus seems to be a strong one. Congratulations."

"Did you-?" Both of you look to Arthur who is squeezing the bridge of his nose so tightly his fingertips are white. "You do this on purpose, Y/N?"

"The mother doesn’t get much of a choice in all this-"

"Was I talkin' to you?" he snaps, eyes blazing.

"Of course not, Arthur, I-!"

"You playing me for a fool?"

Your stomach sinks. This was something else. A fresh flash of betrayal. He can't think that last night...? "Arthur…"

"How much to get rid of it?" he demands, startling the doctor.

"I beg your p-"

"How much to get rid of it?"

"I don’t do that business here-"

Arthur whips out a pistol and points it at your stomach. "How about now?"

Blood drains from your face as you stare down the barrel of the gun, the doctor stammering wildly.

"I understand this may come as a bit of a shock-"

"A bit of a _shock_?" His thumb presses against the hammer, still glaring with white hot fury. "She needs to be boarding a ship _now_!"

“Arthur.” Your voice is barely a whisper.

“There’s nothing stopping a woman sailing whilst pregnant!”

“And when she gets to the other side with a baby?” he growls, eyes wild. “A baby and no family to support her? Then what?”

“Are you not travelling with her?”

“Arthur,” you choke.

His hand falters, but his glare remains steady. “Y/N.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“It’s too dangerous for you here.”

“I’m staying.”

The pistol lowers as his face crumples with indecision. “You can’t. Colm, the Pinkertons…”

“Then come with me!” He drops the pistol on the table, pulling his hair as he walks away to the window. “Leave Dutch - we already have a head start! If you want to leave America, we can do it together! Wherever you want to go, we can-”

“I can’t, Y/N. It ain’t that easy.”

You force yourself to breathe. “I swear on my life, I won’t breathe a word to anyone about anything. I’m not going to chase you to be a father, I’ll do it alone-”

“Do you really think I don’t want this baby?” His voice cracks as he looks back at you, eyes shining. “We can’t keep it, Y/N. What life can it have with parents like us?”

“I’ll give it a life! I- I’ll go straight. I’ll settle down. It’s not like I can go running back to the O’Driscolls, especially now.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? You can tell Dutch whatever you want. Just leave me here and pretend we never happened-”

“It ain’t being a father I’m worried about! Y/N, I-” He slumps against the wall, staring into space, his brow riddled with worry. “I’ve done it before. My son… he lived with his Ma. I would visit when I could, gave them money so they had enough to eat, I loved them both and… they died. Killed for ten dollars.” He meets your gaze, begging. “We ain’t made for anythin’ good, Y/N. We do bad things and we get it back tenfold. If you and the baby- if anything happened-”

A bowl appears in front of your face just as your stomach turns. When you’ve finished, Arthur’s handkerchief is there to wipe away the tears and bile. You lean back, panting, eyes closed.

“I’m going to step outside,” the doctor announces as Arthur pushes back your hair, kissing your crown apologetically. “And I’m taking the pistol, sir. You can have it back when you leave.”

Arthur ignores him, crouching beside you to kiss your knuckles gently.

“Please. Please don’t take the baby.”

“I won’t,” he promises, peppering your face and temples with kisses.

“I didn't mean for this to happen, but I can’t leave America, Arthur. I have nowhere else to go! If I'd known who you were- who you ran with-”

He hushes you, pressing your foreheads together. “We’ll work it out. I promise.”


	4. Rhodes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that brought "Parcheesi" into the world.
> 
> Warnings: suggestion of abortion, discussion of unplanned pregnancy and parentage

In this booth in some rundown town west of Lemoyne, you’re grateful to have Arthur’s thumb rubbing calm circles on the back of your hand. His eyes are azure in the sunlight pouring through the shutters, watching the road outside for the third day since you’ve arrived.

The sound of you pushing your plate away attracts his attention.

“You need to eat something,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand with a small frown. You shrug indifferently, although the voice at the back of your mind is nagging the same thing. Your stomach is a separate entity to you now - it will betray you at the drop of a hat by suddenly dropping through the floor and pushing bile up in its place. How are you supposed to eat when you aren’t hungry? When anything that does pass your lips tastes like dirt, and tastes worse when it passes them again?

He sighs heavily, kissing your knuckles before enveloping them beneath both of this own. It’s like you’re watching him jump backwards and forwards in time. The lines etch deeper in moments like these, when you’re sat by the window waiting. They drove themselves in hoards when conversation pulled you into heated discussion about right and wrong.

_“A baby shouldn’t be born on the run from the law.”_

_“What about the boy? Jack?”_

_“It was different then - there weren’t so many Pinkertons, and they weren’t so damn determined.”_

_“So why is he still running with you?”_

_“It’s different - they’re safer with us than out there where they can be grabbed for ransom.”_

_“Who would hold a boy and his mother for ransom?” A dark look reminds you of the ten dollar murder. “These guys are the law-”_

_“And the law hire bounty hunters, and them bounty hunters are anyone that steps off the street.”_

Despite some strong arguments that stir doubt in your already unsettled insides, you can’t help but see the twinkle in his eyes when the barman talks to you about his own newborn daughter, promising that the baby will be worth every second - although it could be the lack of sleep making him delirious.

You came to bed late last night to find him passed out on top of the blankets still fully dressed. Taking pity on him, you removed his boots, stirring him from his sleep enough to get underneath the quilt and hold it up for you to curl in next to him. You slipped in, gasping as his strong arms wrapped around your waist and pulled your back flush against his front, his nose buried in your hair.

“My lady and our baby,” he mumbled against the back of your neck as his palm flattened on your unchanged stomach.

“If you’ll have us,” you whispered in return, inhaling sharply as his grip tightened.

“I can’t be what I ain’t.” A kiss tingled your bare shoulder. “But I want you both more’n anything.”

“You promise?”

His warm breath chuckled over your back. “I ain’t lyin’ if that’s what you mean.” You turned your head, finding his heavy lids in the darkness of the room. “I’m sorry for how I acted back there. I loved being a father, and I’ve loved being with you. Best o’ both worlds but... I know this world don’t work that way - for outlaws at least.”

“It’s worked for your brother.”

“Mm. That fool was always lucky.”

“We make our own luck in this world, Arthur. Have faith.”

He chuckled at that, burying his head deeper into his pillow. “A’ight. I’ll try.”

You push a piece of meat into your mouth and force yourself to chew. You’re sure this would taste amazing if you had found this place before you lost your appetite.

Arthur moves to his feet suddenly, eyes fixed outside. “He’s here.”

You follow his gaze to see a curt old man dismounting a stormy coloured turkoman. You recognise him instantly.

_She can’t go free. Not with the Pinkertons after us._

"Arthur!" Hosea calls to the man half running off the wooden porch to meet him, hitching Silver Dollar on the side of the road. "Everything alright?"

"Hosea - you got the letter! I-" He moves his hat on his head, raking his hands through the mane of hair before setting it back down. "I didn't know who else to ask."

"I'm guessing it fell through, whatever it was you intended?" The brown eyes drift to the window where you shrink out of view.

"Somethin' like that," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "I… we need to talk. I was hopin' you might be able to… to help in some way or- or at least lend another mind to workin' out what we gotta do now."

Hosea holds his son’s gaze steadily, tilting his chin towards the saloon. "Is she worth it?"

"Yes. She's-" He exhales shakily, looking over his shoulder to your peeping eyes. "She's important to me, Hosea."

A hand clamps on his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “Let’s get properly introduced then.”

You hold your breath as the two men walk up to where you’re sat shrinking into the wall. Arthur slides in beside you, squeezing your leg with a small (albeit worried) smile as the stranger settles himself opposite you, his brown eyes bland and unreadable.

"So what is it you need to be telling me?" he asks calmly to no one in particular as he waves for a drink. "What's brought you all this way east for Christ's sake?"

"I was gonna get her outta the country," Arthur explains lowly, his knee jittering again. "There're boats - ships that are taking people out of America. Get her away from Colm - and us for that matter."

"But…?" He takes the whisky and throws it back, tucking a dollar in the garçon's pocket as he asks for the same again.

"But they wouldn't let her board. She- she weren't well an'..." He clears his throat. "An' now-"

"I'm pregnant." Your voice cracks in place of Arthur's as you blink back tears. "I'm carrying Arthur's child."

Hosea blows out his hollow cheeks, looking between the two of you as though expecting a cry of "April Fool's!" in June. Arthur's shoulders sag at his mentor's response.

"We ain't even told you the best part. Her cousin was on the ferry in Blackwater. Heidi. She's the one Dutch… you know..."

He drags his hands down his face. "Could you bring us the bottle?" he calls before the barman can return. "The bottle and- two? Three glasses?"

“We owe it to her, Hosea!”

“Are you-?” He waves his hand, looking between you both. “What are your plans?”

“She’s keeping it.”

You nod in agreement, holding onto him for dear life as the man pours you each a glass and toasts. You try to follow suit, but the smell knocks your stomach before you can drink it. You set it back down, pushing the glass away as Arthur rubs your back understandingly.

“Don’t start this again,” growls Arthur suddenly, surprising you with his tired hostility. “Please.”

The old man’s voice is hushed, eager. “Think about it - this is an opportunity to get outta this life!”

“I can’t do that, Hosea.”

“This could be whatever deity is up there giving you a second chance! You’ve said it yourself, Arthur. We’re thieves in a world that don’t want us no more.”

“I ain’t leavin’, Hosea. You know I can’t, ‘specially now.”

Regret saturates his sigh, the twinkle in his eye extinguished as he leans his head against the back of the bench. “I know, son. Can’t blame a feller for hopin’.” Silence stretches out between you before the older man speaks again. “So what is it you’re wanting to do? We both know you ain’t dumb enough to want to bring her into camp.”

“What else is there to do? Dutch killed her ticket outta here - she's owed a place to stay!”

“He’s paranoid enough without introducing someone with motive. Morale is as low as it’s ever been right now - if word gets out that the girl was related to the new O’Driscoll? People will panic, Arthur. We’ve already lost too many-”

“I just want to keep the baby,” you interrupt, your eyes begging for him to find your honesty. “I know what it looks like, but I didn’t know Arthur was runnin’ with anybody.”

“How did you get caught again? After kidnapping Bill, wasn’t it?”

“That wasn’t me!” you cry desperately.

“But you were there when he was tied to a post?”

“I only went down to see what- what Heidi did. I just wanted to put a face to the story- Please believe me! I ain’t about revenge, and I ain’t about to do anything to put Arthur or the baby in danger-”

“Promises aren’t enough to vouch for you.”

“I won’t leave her side,” intervenes Arthur, squeezing you tight enough to fuse your sides together. “And if I do, you can watch her. Make sure she stays outta trouble.”

“And if both of us are away?”

His exhale is harsh, his mouth searching for words that can’t be found. Hosea tuts, more to himself than anything.

“I know I shoulda realised who I was gettin’ involved with,” Arthur says slowly, blue eyes begging. “But it’s too late for that. If there’s any way of keeping them with me, I gotta try. Please, Hosea. Help us?”

The bony man shrugs tiredly, shaking his head in defeat. "It ain’t me you need to convince, it’s Dutch."

“Do you think he’ll take it?”

“I don’t know anymore. Maybe if he sees how important she is to you.” He sighs, eyes searching the ceiling as though the answer might be hidden in the flaking white paint. “Like I said, he isn’t going to execute a woman carrying a child, and handing her back to Colm would be just that. Can’t hand her to the authorities neither in case she feeds them information.” Lips pressed together they all but disappear, he pours himself and Arthur another glass. “I suppose, until she proves herself to still be a threat we’re at an impasse.”

Arthur taps the glass with his free hand in time with the bounce of his knee. "I- I just don't wanna be the one bringing this gang to its knees."

“You won’t, Arthur.” A ghost of a smile dimples his cheek. “You know what you mean to us. Everyone knew something was happening with you - couldn’t not, knowing you as well as we do - and at the end of the day, you wouldn’t be fighting like this unless you trusted her. So… it’s time we trust your judgement.”

He throws the amber liquid into his mouth, wiping his hands over his thighs. “But - I will say this to the both of you right now-” He fixes you with an unforgiving stare, his neat voice hushed. “-if anyone in camp comes to harm as a result of your actions, I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in you. Baby or no baby.”

“Hosea-!”

“I mean it.” His gaze doesn’t flicker, holding you like a snake charmer. “We aren’t like Colm, we don’t pick people up to expand our numbers. The Van der Linde gang is family. What we have is thicker than blood. Don’t go shedding any. Understand?”

“Yes,” you croak.

“Good.” He drains your untouched glass and gets to his feet. “Arthur, you should go on ahead. Tell Dutch what’s happened, but leave out the family history. I don’t want to play that card unless we absolutely have to.”

“And Y/N?”

“We’ll be behind you in the cart. On Silver Dollar, you should get back in a day and a half at a push - if we aim for two and a bit, that should give him plenty of time to cool off and think rationally.” The older man squeezes his son's arm. “Don’t look at me like that, son. She’ll be safe with me.”

****

As promised, after two nights travelling with Hosea, you arrive back to the heartlands of New Hanover. He explains, whilst pulling out a book from his bag, that you’re waiting here until Arthur comes to fetch you both. No point walking into camp if the heat is still on.

“And if it doesn’t calm down?” you ask.

“Well, I imagine he’ll come get you and take you on to Valentine.”

You wait for a few hours - it’s only as the sun is beginning to dip lower towards the horizon that Arthur comes out from between the trees. He gives Hosea a look that can only be described as… terse. Understanding immediately, Hosea clambers down.

“Give me five minutes before coming in. No point in talking if nobody can hear what you have to say.”

The two men exchange a series of pats as they pass each other. The shadows under Arthur’s eyes are almost black as he climbs up beside you.

“How’d it go?”

Hesitating, he squeezes your knee, placing a deep kiss to your forehead before flicking the reins. “Well. Guess we’ll see if it was enough.”

He guides the wagon a little further down the dirt track parallel with the train tracks. You can see a glimmer of light through the trees for a brief moment, but it’s not until you turn down a narrow path you wouldn’t have otherwise noticed, that you recognise quite how sheltered the camp is. You brace yourself for a sniper to take you out, but you make it through to the clearing without crossing anyone’s path.

Arthur parks the cart, releasing the horses before helping you down.

“How do we even know it’s his?” you hear Dutch cry from the all too familiar central tent.

"You saw how she came in, so she was telling the truth about that. Why would she bother with that get up if they knew?"

“It’s Colm! He’s been trying to take us out for years!”

“Arthur cares for her. We should give her a chance.” A hefty scoff sounds. "He isn't like you or John; they've been intimate. Of course he cares! And she’s pregnant - that baby could come out blacker than the night sky and he’d take it in as his own."

Arthur’s fingers weave through your hair, pulling your ear to his chest. His hammering heart alone almost blocks out the noise but a growl makes you lift your head.

“Herr Morgan!”

“Herr Strauss.”

“There’s a debt I need you to collect.” The man’s face is long and thin with small round glasses perched at the very end of his nose - perfect for looking down into the book he’s carrying. “A rather reluctant client by the name of Downes.”

You jump at the sinister snarl that curls from Arthur’s lips. “I’m busy.”

“You don’t need to go immediately, Mr Morgan, but the sooner the better. Fellow seems determined to die before paying his dues.”

“If it’s so important, get someone else to do it.”

“I’ve tried but Mr Bell was a little too heavy handed. We can’t collect debts from the dead.”

“Well, it’ll have to wait. I got more pressing matters right now.”

His beady eyes gleam as he surveys you. “So I’ve heard. The O’Driscoll girl, isn’t it?”

“ _Git outta here!_ ”

“Arthur! Y/N!” Hosea calls you both from the flaps of Dutch’s tent. With one last sneer at Strauss, Arthur leads you to the castle by the hand, his fingers interlocked with yours as he steps in front of you, entering first to take the brunt of the hostile atmosphere.

Dutch is stood with his feet planted apart beside a gramophone, arms folded across his chest as his eyes burn into yours with a fierce intensity.

“What are you wantin’ from us, Miss? To kill us in our sleep perhaps?”

“Dutch-”

“Let her speak, son!”

You take a steadying breath. “Mr Van der Linde-”

“Miss O’Driscoll,” he returns sarcastically, lighting a fat cigar.

“Miss L/N, actually,” you shoot before you manage to bite your tongue. “I’m not here to hurt any one of you. We’re in a predicament, and we’d appreciate it-”

“We got a sayin’ here,” he interrupts brashly. “We save people as need savin’, shoot fellers as need shootin’ and feed those who need feedin’. Which is it you’re needin’, Miss?”

“Feedin’ if you can, Dutch,” Arthur growls, squeezing your hand as he throws you a look. “Savin’ us if you will.”

He scoffs, shaking his head in despair. “So it’s _‘us’_ now?”

The apple in Arthur’s throat bobs, his chin still held high. “Yes. We’re in it together. Where she goes I go. You’re my family and I want to stay, but if you can’t accept her, I guess we’ll have to find somewhere else.”

“Come now, Arthur-!”

“She’s carrying my child, Dutch.”

“That didn’t stop John disappearin’.”

“I ain’t Marston. You know that.”

“I know you’re still holdin’ a grudge on him, that’s for sure.”

Arthur sighs harshly, pulling your body flush with his. “What’s it gonna be, Dutch? She needs to rest. Can she stay, or am I takin’ her to town?”

He takes a long drag of his cigar, casually blowing the smoke into your face. “What happened, Arthur? You've got so sour in your old age.”

“I guess I got tired of worryin’ about everybody else.”

“Worryin’ about everybody else? Son, you want us to take in another _O’Driscoll_ , for crying out loud! It’s suicide!”

His grip on you tightens. “Well then, I guess it’s time to thank you for all them years.”

Tutting ostentatiously, his black eyes narrow. “Come now, Arthur, you don’t mean that.”

Arthur's answering sigh is sharp. “I ain’t slept proper since I brought her here, an’ I’m gettin’ real tired of talkin’. I can’t risk losin’ her like I did Eliza and Isaac.”

He takes another long slow drag of smoke and lets it cloud the air between them as they stare at each other, both stubborn and unrelenting. “Fine. She can stay. But first sign of trouble and she’s out!”

“A chance is all I’m askin’.” Tugging you out of the tent, he keeps his body between you and Van der Linde the entire time. “Thank you, Dutch.”

“This is on you, Hosea,” you hear as Arthur leads you to a small cot a dozen feet away. “Soft, the both of you.”


	5. Horseshoe Overlook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I messed up and posted 2 chapters at the end of Feb instead of saving Ch4 as a draft to post last week? Idk, I'm very confused and work is not helping. I'm trying to post every Wednesday-ish. I have up to part 9 done and I thought 10 weeks would be enough to finish it up, but alas I have wrote maybe 100 words... Probably starting here things are going to get a little less polished, so sorry about that

Truth be told, after a week of being shunned by everybody except Arthur, you were starting to miss life as an O’Driscoll. Sure, they were slimy and smelly and brash and cruel, but they would at least excrete some sense of comradery alongside the shit they gave you.

You were used to being an oddball. Mocked for your smooth face, you insisted on a past life as a talented barber. If anyone cracked a shot at your wide hips, you placed a precise amount of lead in a non vital limb as warning to copycats. The terror of being discovered earned you a streak of being ruthless, which is how you climbed the ranks and managed to squeeze out regular breaks every few weeks.

The Van der Linde crap was something else though. The women pressing their lips together, the men spitting threats when Arthur’s out of earshot… Everybody was giving the two of you a wide berth and Arthur’s heavy sigh whenever he noticed someone acting colder than they had before didn’t do much to comfort you. This hurt on a personal level. You were the talk of this small travelling town, but there was no house to take refuge in and no brick walls to keep the whispers out. Instead, you were sat on display with a billowing cotton sheet for privacy at best.

“They’ll get over it,” Arthur assures you daily. “They did with Kieran.”

Kieran Duffy. The man's whole corpse shook like the last leaf in autumn during a tornado. If your pulse was personified it would shake less, even when thrown the more creative threats. Your feelings toward the man varied from disgust of his betrayal of Colm, to rabid jealousy of him being able to exist without a bodyguard. Yes, your lover’s constant presence dissuaded others from picking a fight, but his protective streak was growing older by the day.

When you've been in camp a not-so-settled seven days, you spot Hosea intercepting Arthur on his return coffee trip. Judging from the immediate change in body language, it’s about a job that needs to be done. You know for a fact that money is thin on the ground - you’ve heard Miss Grimshaw berating the other men in camp about it plenty of times, hissing with venom whenever they dare complain about picking up the slack.

You excuse yourself from your shared cot, trying in vain to use the outhouse, before returning to find Arthur gathering supplies for his journey.

“Won’t be long,” he assures you, a gentle kiss on your lips, squeezing your hand as he picks up his satchel. “Some feller other side of Valentine owes us money. I gotta go deal with him, but when I get back I was thinkin’ we could get outta here, do some huntin’ or somethin’. What you reckon?”

“Sounds great!” You force yourself to grin despite your stomach sinking faster than a wounded elk. Something in his eyes betrays his own attempt at make believe, but that doesn't stop him jovially mounting his horse and galloping away with a small wave.

_“New to camp?”_

_You look up as threateningly as you can. A man with sharp cheekbones and a thick dark beard is grinning at you jovially._

_“Don’t get ya knickers in a twist - I ain’t gonna stab you or nuttin.” He holds out a grubby hand. “Name’s Peader.”_

_“Peter?” you repeat._

_His eyes crumple with his chuckle. “Aye, if that’s easier for youse.”_

You swear as you stick your thumb with the needle. You were better at gutting fish than needlework - and no one ate the fish you gutted. Seemingly tired at the prospect of washing out more bloodstains, Miss Grimshaw calls you over to a basin of soapy water to work out the hardier of the stains yourself.

“No heavy liftin’!” she snaps as you kneel on the ground beside the tub. “If you need somethin’ heavy movin’, you shout someone, y’hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you reply. You’ve overheard the other women in camp complaining about how bossy she is, but you find comfort in it. No matter how stern she comes across, she's yet to treat you differently for your time with Colm. However inconsequential that might seem to someone outside your position, you can’t help but be grateful.

_“It’s nice not to be the youngest for once.”_

_You stiffen. “What are you talking about?”_

_“I know I’m a hairy one for fifteen but-” Peter rubs the hair of his jaw pointedly and it knocks you sick. Two hours into this crazy life and you’re already found. What will they do to you now?_

_“Fifteen?” you repeat incredulously._

_A belly laugh bubbles from his mouth. “Aye. Me balls dropped before I was walkin’, unlike youse. How old are you anyways, Thomas?”_

_“Fourteen,” you blurt out, your stomach dropping with every lie. At least you have a comrade to hide behind now. After all, this works better than the truth, and should hopefully buy you time until Heidi gets here._

You get to work, hating how the detergent creates a thick layer of slime over your skin. Even as your knuckles protest, you scrub until your arms ache, working out your frustrations against the ridges of the washer board. You keep your eyes down, your ears perked for any hint of ambush - but it still takes you by surprise when a pair of spurs stop too close for comfort.

“Ahh, Guinevere! We meet again!”

You bite your tongue, wringing out a pair of Dutch’s trousers as Hosea's words of caution echo inside your skull. You can feel the dead grey stare boring its way into your head before slowly sweeping over your body.

“Heard Ol’ Morgan’s knocked you up.” Micah chuckles, stepping forward to tuck a tendril of hair behind your ear. You flinch at the contact, moving from your knees to your hip in an effort to put more distance between you, but this quickly proves to be in vain. “But I ain’t above tryin’ again. Whaddaya say?””

Blood roars in your ears. Somewhere you can hear someone shouting, but it’s lost to the ripple of goosebumps up your back as he closes in on you. Torn between fight or flight, your muscles clench as you scan the surrounding area for an escape route. He has you cornered against the wagon and the basin, standing over you to prevent you challenging him at eye level. You could dive under the wagon and run from the other side, but who's to say the gunslinger can't grab you by the ankle before you make it? 

“I said leave her alone, dammit!”

“Oh, Miss Roberts,” he purrs, finally stepping back. “Of course you may join us. We were thinking about making it a party. Mom’s club, right? I mean, John and Arthur ain’t here, and since Jenny coulda been carrying Micah Bell IV, I guess it’s only fair I play the part of Daddy.”

Taking a deep breath, you try to continue with the washing as nonplussed as you're able, but Abigail is tugging you to your feet by the back of your dress.

“In your dreams, Micah,” she snarls, pushing you to her tent where young Jack is drawing in the dirt with a stick. “Arthur’s gonna kick your ass from here to California if you keep hasslin’ her.”

“No need to get jealous, Abigail. I know it’s been a while since John’s taken to you. Where is he anyhow? Has he found himself a new whore to impregnate?”

“Piss off!”

He tuts, moustache twitching. “Now, that ain’t nice. I mean, can’t be worse than an O’Driscoll, can it? Poor Morgan. Just when you think he’s hit rock bottom, he just keeps rollin’, doesn’t he?”

“Bell?”

His smug face turns into Arthur’s fist with a crunch. Owain, Arthur's stallion, is trotting away from the ruckus, the other men in camp hurrying over as Arthur straddles Micah's swollen stomach and begins pummelling him.

“MR MORGAN!” cries Dutch, pushing through the onlookers to wrap his arms around Arthur's middle and hoist him to his feet. “What is going on?”

“If you have somethin’ to say to her, you can say it to my face!” Arthur spits over his shoulder.

“What has gotten into you?” demands Dutch as the younger man shrugs off his grip, breathing heavily.

“I come back in, after leaving her for an hour and Micah’s already slimed over!”

“A pretty bird like that - you can’t know she’ll come back to you until you set her free,” says Micah thickly, holding his sleeve against his bleeding nose.

“You’re a damn _cockroach_!”

“Alright, alright, everyone calm down!” Dutch surveys the growing crowd, arm outstretched between them as though neither blond would duck around it to throw the next hit. “Arthur, why are you back so soon?”

“Feller’s croaked.” He glares at Strauss who’s working nearby. “He needs to be more careful who he loans to. Got the impression I weren’t the first to demand payment. Bastard owes more than he could’ve ever paid up.”

Dutch breathes out hard through his nose, arm dropping to his side. “Well you better find the money from somewhere, son. Come on, everyone! Show's over. Micah - a word?”

He glares at their backs until they're lost to the central tent, before stalking his way to your side, looking both you and Miss Roberts over. “He didn’t hurt either o’ you, did he?”

“You think he’d still be here if he had?” Miss Roberts rolls her eyes.

“Thank you, Abigail,” he mutters when he’s assured himself you are completely unscathed. “I appreciate it.”

“Thank _you_. He’s had it comin’ for god knows how many weeks - here’s hopin’ he don’t go forgetting his lesson too soon.”

“I mean… well you know what I mean.” He gives you a squeeze before heading after Strauss. “Gimme five minutes, Y/N, and we’ll head out.”

“Alright,” you reply, brushing off your skirts with a hesitant look up to your saviour. “Thank you for… that.”

“You dont talk much do you?” Her blue eyes are sharp, squinting at you suspiciously when you shrug.

“Reckon it’s better I keep my mouth shut,” you admit.

She thinks about this before nodding in agreement. “For future reference, nobody is gonna think bad of you if you call Micah out on his crap. He ain’t too popular round here.”

“Ok.”

“And another thing?” She checks Arthur is still busy with Strauss before leaning in closer. “If you hurt him, you’ll be lucky if Micah gets to you first,” she hisses. “We clear?”

You nod as fervently as you can until she waves a hand to dismiss you.

“Have a nice evening.”

****

Riding out with Arthur, the tension you hadn’t realised your shoulder were carrying rolls from your body. Your arms are wrapped around his waist, your cheek resting in the middle of his shoulders. He tilts his head back to touch more of you as you descend down the side of the hill towards West Elizabeth.

He insists on setting up camp whilst you start fishing in Dakota’s River. Eventually he plonks himself on the bank beside you, a foot of space between your bodies as he also pulls out his rod and sets to baiting.

You sit in the quiet, enjoying each other’s presence without complications.

“You, sir, are a fish!” he grins when he eventually reels in a fat bass.

“Do you always compliment your prey?”

“I pay compliments where they’re due, beautiful.”

You laugh, casting out again.

“How was it today? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Who? Micah?” You twitch the rod. “No. You came back before it got out of hand.”

“Everyone treat you ok?”

You shrug. What is there to say? No one trusts you. Half would be happy if you were still bound to the tree. In all honesty you can’t blame them; you yourself are struggling to trust them and there are times when you would rather be tied up so you don’t have to watch your back.

“Listen. We got word that one of our fellers from the ferry job is being moved outta state. Javier and Charles have already headed down there to scope it out, but Dutch is wantin’ me to go after them, check it’s ok.”

You say nothing, knowing he isn’t finished yet.

“I’d be gone a couple days. Maybe more, but I doubt it. The boys should have done the leg work by now, so it should be a matter of grabbing him and getting gone.”

“Do what you have to do.” You give him a small smile. “Won’t do us no good if they think I’m turning you against them.”

“True, but that won’t stop me.” He stares you out, his eyes an ocean of unbiased calm. “Say the word and I’ll stay. They won’t miss me much, I’m just an extra gun.”

“Take your guns and go stretch your legs. I can look after myself.”

“And the baby?”

“I can care for the wee O'Driscoll wain, aye,” you tease.

He chuckles. “You been listenin’ to Miss Molly?”

“More like I was surrounded by all manner of irish men til you lifted me out of there.” You twitch your rod again, gasping joyfully as you feel a tug.

“You think they’re missin’ you? Them O’Driscoll boys?” he asks as you land an underwhelming pickerel.

“There were too many of us,” you admit with a shrug. “It’s not the first time I’ve ceased to exist to them. All those times you and I were together, none of ‘em recognised me for who I really was. They might comment, sure, but to be fair it’s real easy to lose track of who you have and haven’t seen. No one’s blown a whistle about Kieran going missing and he’s been with you how many weeks?”

He chuckles softly, eyes sad. “I didn’t mean missin’ you as a gun. You not make any friends?”

“It- It isn’t the same as what you’ve got.” You force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat as you cast out again with what you hope to be a more tempting chunk of cheese. “Most of them, the way they talk about women…" You shudder. "They were back up in a fight. Nothing more.”

***

Arthur leaves early the following morning. He leaves a heavy kiss on your lips, his eyes burning into you, swearing an unspoken oath that if anything happens whilst he’s away, the devil himself will not stomach the consequences.

As much as Hosea has accepted himself as your guardian, he is often guarding the rest of camp like some over tired dad. To avoid another Micah situation, if you're not in Arthur’s tent, you hover near him or the other women despite their dirty looks. Abigail appears to tolerate you, but Mary Beth is the only other woman in camp actively throwing you a smile. One of the two blondes - Mrs Adler - seems to hate you the most. If you get too close, her arms shake from clenching her fists so hard.

“Are you a real life O'Driscoll?”

Pulled from your thoughts, you find yourself eye to eye with the little boy who’s still sniffling after being sick a few weeks ago.

“How’d you mean?”

“Mama said Uncle Arthur brought another O’Driscoll back.”

You huff, uncomfortable of the gossip going around. “I was. I’m not now, though. I’m one of you now.”

“Why?”

“Because…” You look around for his mother but come up empty. “Because if I was, I’d still be tied to the tree.”

“But why?”

“Because the O’Driscolls and the Van der Lindes aren’t friends.”

“Why?”

You resist rolling your eyes and instead send a prayer up to the heavens, marking it as urgent before you throw this boy off the cliff. “Because Dutch wasn’t very nice to Colm, and when Colm wasn’t nice to Dutch, he didn’t like it, and they decided you had to be on one side or the other.”

“Which one are you?”

“I’m a Van der Linde now, like you.”

“But Mama said-”

“I mean, I live with you now. With Dutch. Not Colm.”

He thinks on that, and the moment’s reprise is heavenly. You begin to hum to yourself, but are quickly interrupted.

“Ma said you tricked Uncle Arthur.”

“Did she?” you ask, too tired to be disappointed.

“Yeah. She and him talked a long time when you came back.” He’s picking the bark of his branch, dropping splinters into your shoes. “Mama said you was bein’ sneaky, but Uncle Arthur told her to get lost.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Is it true you’re gonna have a baby?” he asks brightly.

“Hopefully…” He frowns, confusion dimpling between his eyebrows. You realise that he is still in a place of innocence that the world is black and white. You swallow a lungful of air, trying to think how best to explain. “Something could happen yet- things go wrong sometimes and-”

“What sorta things?”

You tuck your hair behind your ears, poking at your stitching, wondering where the hell his mother has got to. “Well, it might not grow properly yet. Usually ladies don’t tell anyone until a bit further along… if I get sick, or if the baby gets hurt it might not… you know. It might not make it to being outside my tummy.”

“When will you know?”

“When it gets here I suppose.” You look up at the boy’s thoughtful expression. “Why so many questions? You excited?”

“Yeah! Ima be an uncle!”

“You’re a little young to be an uncle, kid.” You can feel your mouth pulling into a smile despite yourself. “You’ll be cousins though, I guess. Your pa and Arthur are brothers, right?”

“Right! So this is gonna be my brother?”

You stifle a laugh of disbelief. “Well we don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl yet-”

“Do you got any brothers?”

“Jack! You playin’ hide and go seek again?”

“I’m here, Mama!”

Abigail rounds the tent, her expression darkening at the sight of you. You gulp, dropping your gaze back to your stitching, but the boy is already gushing words faster than water rapids.

“Mama! She said she isn’t an O’Driscoll, so that means she can stay right?” He’s pulling on his mother’s skirts, pointing at you like you're an oblivious sideshow attraction. “I’m gonna be a big brother!”

Her blue eyes flash with suspicion before the tug attracts her attention again. “Jack, honey, the baby’ll be a cousin to you. For you to be a big brother, me and your pa...” It doesn't take much to gather the chances of them producing another child is unlikely, what with the separate sleeping arrangements and frequent spats.

“This baby can be your brother or sister," you say quickly, more to the mother than her son. “I mean, Arthur’s your pa’s big brother right? But they don’t have the same mom and dad. It'll be the same with you and the baby when it's born.”

Abigail offers you a half smile. “Right,” she confirms, crouching down and straightening his little coat. “You’re gonna be a big brother! Uncle Arthur’ll be mighty proud of you.”

“Can I go play?”

“Sure, Jack.” She watches as he runs off, dragging his stick behind him. Slowly she turns to you, arms folded across her chest. “He weren’t botherin’ you, was he?”

“No, no, of course not!” At least, he isn’t now.

“I- I’m sorry if he was bein’ nosy. It’s alright to tell him to butt outta your business if he gets a bit much. He heard me talkin’ with Arthur ‘bout it all-”

“Yeah he said,” you say as offhandedly as you can manage. You notice her teeth pulling on her lip out the corner of your eye, but you don’t react. Keep your hands clean, you tell yourself, tying a knot and cutting the thread. Keep your nose out. Wait for Arthur.

“How are you feelin’? About it all?”

You look up, surprised by her gentleness after the cold front that’s been hitting you on repeat from every member of camp. Exhaling thoughtfully, you shrug, not objecting as she pulls over a chair to sit down at the edge of the tent. “Alright, I guess. Gotta just… see what happens, I suppose.”

“That’s what Arthur said.” She offers you a small sympathetic smile. “He ain’t usually one for whistlin’, but he ain’t stopped since we got off them mountains. Thought it was the change of weather, but I suppose, looking back, it was meetin’ you.”

Colour blossoms in your cheeks as you look away. “I wouldn’t know. He hasn’t exactly been in the best of moods the past couple of weeks.”

“He’s pleased,” she assures you quietly, her eyes bright and earnest with honesty. “I think he’s just nervous like you are, that it might not work out, but I known him long enough to tell you I ain’t seen this side to him since Jack was first born.”

Your ears prick. “He isn’t-?”

“No! No, Jack is a Marston, I got no doubt at all about that. I just remember him bein’ real pleased when Jack was a baby. He- Being a father is something he- he’ll enjoy I’m sure.”

“I know about Isaac,” you breathe quietly and she lets out a big sigh of relief.

“Oh good! I was worried I’d said too much.”

“Don’t worry. He told me in the doctor’s when-” You shake your head of the memory. “Anyway. I know he’s not sure about it all.”

“He will be.” She gives you a sincere smile. “He’s a worrier, even if he tries not to show it. He’ll be better when it’s here, safe and sound. Anyways - I best leave you rest.”

“Sure.” You hesitate before calling out to her, making her turn back. “Thank you,” you call, not really sure how better to express yourself. She smiles and gives you a wave of understanding.

“I’ll see you around.”


End file.
